


i've done things in your room you'd be ashamed to accuse me of

by fideliter



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Caught in the Act, F/M, Masturbation, Praise Kink, Sexual Fantasy, Swearing, Voice Kink, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-04
Updated: 2016-01-04
Packaged: 2018-05-11 19:37:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5639473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fideliter/pseuds/fideliter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They've never done this before, nothing more than swap saliva on a few occasions. There <i>was</i> that one time, in Third Rail, where she got a little drunk and he got a little handsy. But she didn't think it'd ever end up as something more than fantasy, and yet, there Deacon sits. Leaning forward, elbows on his knees, looking at her like he wants to swallow her whole.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i've done things in your room you'd be ashamed to accuse me of

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this](http://ineedymaccready.tumblr.com/post/135829584157/i-hope-youre-having-a-lovely-night-and-thanks-for) "imagine the companions reactions" post by tumblr user ineedymaccready. Pls follow them for hilarious and perfectly in-character reactions.
> 
> Title taken from the song "House Guest" by Nothing Painted Blue.

They don't usually get two hotel rooms.

But clearing trade routes meant they had as much salvage as they could carry (which means they had _a lot of it_ , as Whisper wasn't the kind to leave anything valuable behind), and it all made for a very handsome paycheck. After resupplying _both_ their packs, they still had enough left over for two rooms. The kind with an almost fully-functional bathtub and a real mattress. 

The kind with _privacy_. 

It's like a breath of fresh air, to have a roof over her head for once. Being out on the road meant little in the way of shelter - or privacy. _Especially_ when traveling with Deacon, who's such a light sleeper, when he _does_ sleep. It's exhausting keeping up with him - when he's not sleeping, he's talking her ear off. And while she might care deeply for the filthy little liar, _god_ , she needs sleep. And a moment or two alone once in awhile.

Fortunately, now that there's a flimsy wall between the two of them, she can get just that.

After finally cleaning off - months of caked on dirt and dust sluicing off her in waves - and changing into the cleanest clothes she owned, she sinks into the bed, a happy little sigh escaping her. nd she melts happily into the threadbare mattress. It squeaks, just a little, and there's nothing in the way of sheets, but _god_ , it feels like heaven compared to a bedroll.

She wiggles down into the mattress, body twisting this way and that until she's comfortable. It's almost - _almost_ \- like her old bed, pre-war. She had a comforter, of course, and _pillows_ , but hey. Beggars couldn't be choosers out in the 'wealth, and this bed was far better than the ground. With all her twisting and turning, her shirt hikes up and she shivers at the cool evening breeze on bare skin. 

And - _oh_. 

There's a warmth in her lower stomach, and maybe she should put this evening of privacy to good use.

Fingernails slide down bare skin, goosebumps rising in their wake. There's an electric buzz in her veins, because _god_ , it's been so long since she's done this. It's almost embarrassing how quickly she gets into it, hand snaking up under her shirt to cup her breast through her tattered bra. Squeezes gently, then _not-so-gently_ , unclasping the bra with ease. She tosses it to the side and then, after a moment of consideration, shucks the shirt off too. (If she's gonna do this, then she's _really_ gonna do this.)

Hips arch the bed as her free hand wanders down, down, _down_ \- tipping into the elastic of her underwear. A thready little moan escapes her when she finds herself wet and willing, hips bucking as a finger trails along the insides of her thighs. It's easy enough to sink into this, just mindless sensations and touches, but Whisper's always been bad at keeping herself on track, to keep her mind from wandering. So it's only a matter of time until her imagination runs away from her, and she moans again when she easily pictures the hand touching her belonging to someone _else._

Someone else like, _maybe_ , someone who's wearing sunglasses.

There's a hitch in her breathing when she realizes _that_ , and that's all it really takes for her imagination to spiral out of control. It comes from picturing his hand to picturing his _everything_. It's easy, far too easy, and okay, maybe this isn't the first time she's pictured him like _this._ _Maybe._ Not that she's admitting anything.

He'd saunter to the bed with that _stupid_ gait of his, all lopsided smile and gleaming eyes. He wouldn't stop until his knees pressed against the bed, and then the mattress would dip under his weight as he settled over her, pressing kisses to bare skin as he goes. She thinks he'd be good at kissing, and he'd be good at _other_ things involving his mouth. She moans into the mattress at the mere _thought_ , Deacon settled between her open thighs, smirking up at her. The same expression he wears when he gets a head-shot or two, and it'd be all for her - right before he dives _into_ her. 

"Deacon - " she pants, biting her lip as her hand strokes, trying her best to mimic the motions of his tongue. And, _god_ , it feels so good and -

There's a creak from the doorway and she snaps up, eyes wide - caught in the act. Deacon stands in the doorway, leaning against the frame, a smile curving his lips. It's not completely friendly, though, tinted with hunger as he stares. He's been caught in the act too - even in the low light of the bedroom, Whisper can see where his gaze is settled. And it's not on her face. 

"Don't let me stop you," he drawls after a long, tense moment between them - voice husky and _low_ , hungry as his gaze.

"Deacon, what are you _doing_ in here?!" She snaps, hands rising to cover her bare chest. Color rises in her cheeks, caught somewhere between heart-pounding embarrassment and blood-boiling _anger._ She's leaning towards anger, though, and is trying to remember where her pistol is, through the thick fog of arousal.

"Well I certainly didn't mean to interrupt the show." His voice is still tense, like there's something caught in his throat (it takes her a moment to realize it's _arousal_ , if the tent in his pants are anything to go by), as he pushes off the closed door. "I _thought_ I heard my name, and what do you know?" He's grinning now, and it _almost_ seems like he's playing it cool - if not for the red riding high on his cheeks and how he's incapable of keeping his eyes on her _hers._ Her pulse picks up as he meanders his way to the side of the bed, and she thinks he's going to join her until he plops down on one of the rickety chairs. "I _did_."

"God, Dee, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to - " To, to do what? _Almost_ get off while thinking of him? Whisper swallows thickly, unsure. She shifts to run a hand across her sweaty face (the other still fixed carefully around her chest), wanting nothing more than to make a run for it. She's on the third level, though, and she doesn't want to risk shimmying out the window _and_ walking around Goodneighbor less-than-decent in the same night. It'd be a lot to deal with, you know, and besides, Deacon's looking at her in a way that certainly _isn't_ angry. 

In fact, he looks a little amused. And a _little_ like he's about three seconds away from descending upon her. The latter makes a shiver skate down her spine (something that she'd absolute blame on that open window and stupid evening breezes), and his pupils are dark, blown wide. "I'm serious, Whisp. You - you don't have to stop on my account." He jerks his chin towards the bed, to the pants hiked halfway down her thighs - and _fuck_ , how didn't she notice that. _Deacon_ certainly did, and he's more than enjoying the show. 

She gulps down a nervous breath, head tilting slightly. "You want me to - ?" They've never done this before, nothing more than swap saliva on a few occasions. There _was_ that one time, in Third Rail, where she got a little drunk and he got a little handsy. But she didn't think it'd ever end up as something more than fantasy, and yet, there he sits. Leaning forward, elbows on his knees, looking at her like he wants to swallow her whole. 

_"Please_ ," he breathes out in a ruined voice, and well _fuck_ , that's all the encouragement she really needs.


End file.
